


'Til the Winter Gets Me

by Taste_is_Sweet



Series: Soldiers of Fire and Shadows [14]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Care and Feeding of Feral Winter Soldiers, Gen, Graphic descriptions of burns, Gratuitous Kitten References, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra are dicks, I'm Sorry, Mostly hurt, Protective Illya, Protective Matt Murdock, Sick Bucky Barnes, and a hospital, and sick, like really hurt, matt no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 18:10:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13346691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taste_is_Sweet/pseuds/Taste_is_Sweet
Summary: Bucky cries out when his left arm is moved, then lashes out wildly with his right, instinctively trying to attack the cause of his pain. Illya grabs Bucky's wrist and pushes it back to the floor. "It's okay. It's okay, Vanya. You're safe. It's just me and Matt. We're trying to help you."Bucky turns his head towards Illya, but he's incapable of responding, barely present behind his closed eyes. It's heartbreaking, but far more terrifying. Illya's watched enough people die to know what it looks like. This isn't death. Not yet. But it's the dark slide down.





	'Til the Winter Gets Me

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from [The Swing of Things](https://youtu.be/l_VVYHAktnI) by A-ha. I still love the song after all these years.

_Let us walk through this windless city._  
_I'll go on 'til the winter gets me._  
\---A-ha, [The Swing of Things](https://youtu.be/l_VVYHAktnI)

They find Bucky in one of the last standing abandoned warehouses on the Brooklyn waterfront, far from the tenement address Illya remembers from the magazine. It makes sense. The place Bucky used to live is almost unrecognizable now, nothing like the shabby, well-inhabited space in the black-and white pictures. The gleaming condos would not have offered Bucky any familiarity or comfort.

The warehouses would be familiar. Bucky worked in a warehouse like this, before he was a soldier. It will have meaning, even with the ravages of time.

 _We have all been ravaged by time,_ Illya thinks. The only question is how much more of it Bucky can survive.

Matya—Matvey— _Matt_ —walks beside him, stiff-gaited and tense. He ran out of safe, close-set rooftops a few blocks ago, and moves as warily as a bird forced to ground. He keeps his head down, though it's just the two of them, no stranger to see the dead stare of his eyes.

Illya knows Matt doesn't need to look where he's going; he keeps grabbing his arm anyway, concerned he'll trip or stumble into a wall. Illya lets go immediately every time, despite the tolerant resignation in Matt's thin smile. And every time Illya curses in Russian at himself for his unthinking reactions, and then at Matt for not lifting his damn head and making things easier.

Illya is already certain things will be difficult enough tonight.

* * *

It's Matt, of course, who finds him.

He stops dead, goes completely still except for his breathing. Illya strains his hearing, holds his own breath despite the sudden pounding of his heart.

Matt's head snaps up. "This way," he says, and he runs into the blocky, looming building.

Illya is faster, but he pulls back despite his impatience and fear, slowing deliberately to let Matt take the lead. He turns on the flashlight Claire lent him, since in here it's dark enough to need the light. Matt is carrying a sizable backpack, but Illya brought nothing other than what Claire threw into a messenger bag and thrust into his arms. He knows there's a first aid kit in there and some protein bars, and two bottles of water.

"Bring him to the clinic," she said, before she let Illya out of her car. "Call me, whatever time it is. I don't care. Just bring him to the clinic." She held onto the bag until Illya promised he would.

It's not a promise he wants to keep; Claire already puts herself in too much danger and Illya doesn't know what Bucky might do. But he's afraid he'll have no choice.

It's nearly pitch black inside the building. No difficulty for Matt, but Illya needs to swing the flashlight, pick his way across the barren expanse of frost-covered concrete. It's strewn with the debris of squatters, drug addicts and unforgiving time. He can't stand going so slowly, knowing that Bucky is somewhere in the frigid expanse of the building, sick and alone and needing help. Illya clenches his jaw so he won't call out to him. He doesn't know if Bucky will recognize his voice, and they can't afford for him to bolt.

When Matt suddenly grabs Illya's wrist in the dark, Illya almost throws him across the room.

"Cowboy, you idiot! I almost killed you!" he hisses, angry, before he remembers that this handsome, exasperating American is a completely different man. Devil, not Cowboy. No one will call Illya 'Peril' with fondness in their voice again.

"It's Matt," Matt says unnecessarily. He's half-illuminated by the angle of the flashlight. His hood is down at his shoulders and his useless pupils are hidden in the deep, deep brown of his eyes. He's pale as a ghost in the light, but his hand is solid and warm. "I found him. Come on."

He leads Illya by the wrist, making a path for him through the cluttered darkness. They go down a corridor and into a newer building that gleams with chrome and glass in the glow of the surrounding city. Illya wants to ask if Matt can hear Bucky's heartbeat—if Bucky still has a heartbeat, if he's alive—but his growing fear keeps the question locked in his throat. Matt himself seems less resolute the closer they come, slower and more hesitant until Illya wants to shove him aside and run ahead.

They ascend a set of stars that creak and rattle in protest no matter how carefully they step, and then there's another corridor and Matt stops, bent with his hand against the wall, gasping.

"What's wrong?" Illya's worried about Matt now too, but he keeps glancing down the corridor. He can't help himself, even though he knows there's nothing to see. But something's wrong with Matt and Illya won't leave him. "Are you hurt? What happened?"

Matt shakes his head, swallowing. "He's sick. It smells bad. I just need a second."

Illya waits with him, fighting with every part of himself that wants to find Bucky even if it means leaving Matt alone. Bucky taught him better than that, and Illya vowed to never let anyone hurt his brothers again. Including himself.

But he _hates_ it. Illya's hands are shaking, so he balls them into fists. He thinks of Claire, and Gabby, and Napoleon's worried blue eyes, and forces himself to breathe until the dark surrounding them isn't tinged with red.

Matt straightens, swallowing again. He gives a shallow nod. "I'm okay. Let's go."

It's an obvious lie. Matt looks even more pale in the beam from Illya's flashlight; greenish tinge around his jaw. Illya would tell him to stay behind, if he thought there was a chance in hell of Matt listening. But there isn't, so they just keep going.

Matt takes the lead again, but now Illya knows where they're headed: what's probably an office at the end of the corridor. There's no light to see, other than the circle of his flashlight beam and what little seeps through the window glass, but he can hear movement. There's a tiny scuffing, like an animal.

It's Bucky. It must be Bucky. Matt wouldn't have brought them here otherwise.

"Don't run," Matt whispers, surely aware of Illya's desperation. "He's afraid. He knows he can't fight, and there's no other way out of the office other than the window."

Matt's meaning is clear. But if he's right, the worst thing they can do is give Bucky more time. "Then we hurry," Illya says. He runs.

"Bucky!" he calls. Then, "Vanya! Vanya, it's Illya! It's your brother! Don't be afraid, I'm here to help you!" He uses English, which was always their special language, then repeats it in Russian. And by then he's rushing through the doorway.

There's a low but substantial wall of office furniture blocking easy access from the door to the rest of the room. Useless against bullets, but it would slow most ordinary humans down. Illya's not ordinary. He barely has to pause to shove the largest piece aside.

The room reeks of illness and infection, and the unwashed body of a man succumbing to both. And there is his brother.

Bucky stands in the far corner, propped against the wall next to a pathetic nest of crumpled paper, old cardboard and filthy clothing. He's pointing a gun at them, which Illya expected. But Bucky is trembling so badly he can barely hold the weapon, let alone fire. His eyes are wild with fear and red-rimmed, glassy like a corpse. Illya can hear the wet crackle of his breathing from the other side of the room.

He looks awful in the weak beam from Claire's flashlight, like a wretched, restless ghost. His hair is too long, laying in greasy tangles around his ashen, dirty face. He's astonishingly pale, terrifyingly thin. His cheekbones look like knives. He's wearing stained jeans and a tee-shirt stiff with dried liquid down the front, under a ratty yellow jacket that's too ripped to be much use. The left sleeve was clumsily torn off at the shoulder. Bucky is holding his left arm awkwardly away from his body. It's so hot it's misting into the cold air. The vapor shimmers with how badly Bucky's trembling.

"Oh my God." Illya drops his bag and the flashlight, then goes the rest of the way to him, ignoring the gun completely. Bucky recoils, but he doesn't fire. Illya just takes the gun gently from his hand, engages the safety and tucks it into his belt. He puts one hand on Bucky's good shoulder, uses the other to cup the side of his brother's face. All he can feel is hot skin and pointed bone. "Vanya. Vanya, it's me. Illya. Your _Bratik_." He uses _Vanya_ because he's not sure if Bucky's real name will mean anything to him right now, he's so sick. Heat radiates off him like a forge. "Please, Vanya. Can you see me?"

Bucky blinks slowly in confusion, but the fear drains from his eyes. "Illya?" His voice is rasping, but still soft with wonder. He reaches for Illya's face with his shaking right hand, manages to stroke down his cheek with two fingers. "You're real? I…I dreamed…." He's speaking Russian, but the accent's off, more American. More like how Bucky sounded before they beat fluency into him. 

"Yes, Vanya. I'm here. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I didn't try to find you. But I thought you were dead! I read…There was—" Illya's voice breaks over the words; it's all he can do not to start sobbing like a child. "I thought you were dead, and I had lost everything."

"Bratik," Bucky says reverently. He pulls Illya into a tight hug with his right arm, keeping the left still. He claws at the back of Illya's jacket, as if desperate to keep him there. "I couldn't find you." His voice is full of guilt and shame. "I tried so hard, but I keep slipping. I forget where I am. I can't stop it."

"I know. It's all right," Illya says. He holds Bucky just as tightly, but only on his right, mindful of his burning left arm and the terrible wounds on that side. He's too scared to be happy, but he's so grateful and relieved it's overwhelming. He can't afford to feel that now, so he shoves it aside. "It's okay. I'm here. Matt is with me. Do you remember him?"

"You saved my life, Bucky," Matt says quietly.

Matt's voice is gentle and calm, but Bucky immediately whirls, using his grip on Illya's jacket to shove Illya behind him. 

It's what Bucky has always done, protecting him, but it's a mistake. Bucky staggers off balance and his left arm hits the wall. He screams, then sags into unconsciousness.

"Vanya!" Illya grabs him, clasping him on either side of his chest under his arms. Bucky's left arm falls against Illya's hand. It's like being branded. The pain is astonishing.

Illya ignores it. Bucky's barely conscious, still moaning in agony. His jacket is burned through on his left side. What's left of the cloth is soaked with sweat, lymph and blood. Illya can feel the wet, wrecked flesh give horrifically under his fingers. "Help me!" he snaps at Matt, but Matt's already there, cradling Bucky's head as Illya carefully lowers him to the floor. 

The back of Illya's hand is burned badly, deep red over the knuckles and down to his wrist. Looking at it makes the pain worse, like it was waiting for attention.

He can't do anything about it, so Illya ignores it again. Matt takes Bucky's arm and moves it away from his side before Illya can warn him, before Illya remembers that Matt will know how hot the metal is. At least he's wearing gloves.

Bucky cries out when his left arm is moved, then lashes out wildly with his right, instinctively trying to attack the cause of his pain. Illya grabs Bucky's wrist and pushes it back to the floor. "It's okay. It's okay, Vanya. You're safe. It's just me and Matt. We're trying to help you."

Bucky turns his head towards Illya, but he's incapable of responding, barely present behind his closed eyes. It's heartbreaking, but far more terrifying. Illya's watched enough people die to know what it looks like. This isn't death. Not yet. But it's the dark slide down.

Matt's ear is tilted towards Bucky, listening. "Something in his arm is clicking."

"Clicking?" Illya asks. Then, "Fuck. _Fuck._ " Because he knows exactly what that is. "Vanya," he says in Russian. He gently taps Bucky's cheek, belying his urgency. "Vanya, I need you to wake up. This is important. Can you hear me? Please," he tries, more loudly. "Please, Vanya. It's Illya. I need your help! Wake up!"

Bucky's eyes finally crack open. They're glassy and unfocused when they settle on Illya's face. "Bratik?" His breath is hot and smells like the sickness ravaging his lungs. 

"Yes." Illya nods quickly. "Yes, Vanya. It's me. Illya. Your brother. Please, this is important. I need you to tell me, did you try to turn off your arm yourself? Did you try to open your arm? Did you try to open your arm, Vanya!" he repeats, close to shouting when Bucky just blinks dully at him.

"Yes?" Bucky says, uncertain. "I…I think I did. It hurts." His bloodshot eyes go large and liquid. "Oh no." He lifts his right hand clumsily, batting at Illya's chest. "Run. Go, Illya. Before they hurt you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I forgot…the deal…." His eyes slide shut and he pants with pain and the effort of trying to breathe. "Help," he gasps, wrenching his eyes back open with clear, terrible effort. "It hurts. I-I tried...please…."

"Shh. It's all right. I know it hurts. We're going to help you," Illya says. Then to Matt in English: "There's a tracker in his arm. He triggered it when he tried to open the arm himself. Vanya," he says to him in Russian again, voice clipped with fear, "how long ago did you try to turn off your arm?"

Bucky stares at him in confusion, still panting. "I don't…. A day? Two days? I had…I had a knife, but…." He blinks slowly, tears filling his eyes. "I looked for you, Bratik. Everywhere. You were gone. Brock told me…you were dead. But you weren't there…when I went to find…to find you—" He breaks off in a thick cough, wet and wracking. He tries to roll onto his side, but he can't hold his left arm still and it's obvious he's in agony. But he's coughing too hard to stop. 

"It's all right. We've got you. You're all right." Illya lifts Bucky upright while Matt holds Bucky's arm, until finally Bucky's able to spit out a wad of greenish-yellow mucus, marbled with red. "That's good. Get it out. That feels better, doesn't it?"

Bucky doesn't answer. He's shivering, breathing shallowly and staring at nothing with glazed eyes. He lies back when Illya helps him, moving limply. Matt gently puts his arm down, then shakes out his hands. His gloves look singed. Matt pulls them off with his teeth, then drops them on the floor. "Should've brought some Bactine," he says, and gives Illya a pained smile. 

Illya's burn doesn't matter. It will be healed in two days. Bucky heals faster than that, but he hasn't healed at all. He shouldn't have mucus filling his lungs.

"I ain't feeling…so good, Stevie," Bucky gasps out between his quick, shallow breaths. His teeth are chattering despite the heat pouring off his body. "Don't think…I'm gonna be able…to work tomorrow."

"That's okay, Bucky. You need to rest," Matt says.

Bucky doesn't answer him. 

"The panels open with the right pressure," Illya tells Matt. "But only if you use both hands. And they're on the back of the arm, where he can't reach inside. I was taught basic maintenance. Not much. But I think it will be enough." It will be because it has to. He grits his teeth. "I do not want to hurt him."

"We don't have a choice," Matt says.

"I know." Illya takes a breath. "We're going to turn off your arm," he says to Bucky. "But we need to move you to do it, and it will hurt. I'm so sorry, Vanyusha. Be brave."

Bucky nods distantly. Illya hopes it means he understood him.

This time Illya makes sure he's the one maneuvering Bucky's arm, not Matt. Matt's gloves are too small for him, so Illya takes two shirts from Bucky's nest and wads them between the metal and his skin. Bucky's left shoulder is cooler than his lower arm, at least. How long as he endured this?

He and matt turn Bucky onto his stomach as quickly and gently as possible, but Bucky ends up screaming all the same, then coughing so hard he can barely breathe.

They help Bucky onto his side because it seems to help, then wait anxiously until he can finally pull in air without choking. Bucky passes out again as they lower him back to the floor, and Illya hates how grateful he is for it. 

Illya rotates Bucky's arm so his palm faces up, then glances at Matt. "You will need to hold him down."

Matt nods and kneels, wrapping his hands around Bucky's right arm. That has to hurt him, but Matt doesn't even grimace. He rests his knee on Bucky's wrist. Bucky doesn't react. "I'm ready."

Illya nods, swallows. He positions his fingers over Bucky's metal triceps, a few centimeters under the red star, just lightly touching. "Get ready." He presses down and three panels pop open on one side like a door.

Bucky makes a breathless cry of pain, jerking violently. He almost dislodges Matt.

"Vanya, stop! We're trying to help you!" Illya barks at him in Russian. Bucky keeps struggling. "Hold him!" he snaps at Matt, who is already straining, barely managing to keep Bucky still. Illya flips up the hinged panels and then reaches into the space underneath.

It's like plunging his fingers into boiling water, and every time he touches anything Bucky wails in agony. He has so little breath he sounds like a kitten screaming for its mother.

It's very difficult to reach the right tangle of wires buried at the very top of the arm, where the metal latches to bone. The work is normally done with forceps; Illya's fingers are too large and too short by comparison. Fumbling around in Bucky's furnace of an arm hurts like hell, like Illya will have nothing left but charred stumps by the time he's done. But he manages to hook the mass of wires and yank it all out, choosing speed over gentleness or care.

Bucky collapses as the wires rip free, as if Illya just killed him. Illya can't help the cry of alarm.

"It's okay! He just fainted. He's still alive," Matt says quickly.

Of course Illya knew that; there's no reason to feel this relieved. "And the tracker?"

Matt pauses, then grimaces. "I can still hear it."

"Damn it." Illya hoped turning the whole arm off would stop the tracker as well. "I don't know where it is. Can you find it?"

"Yeah. Sure," Matt says quickly. He comes to Bucky's left side, then uses Illya's makeshift bandage to hold Bucky's arm steady with one hand, turning his head and bending so his ear is practically grazing the hot metal. He licks his lips, concentrating, then straightens, takes a breath, and plunges his fingers in. He hisses in pain.

Matt may be one of the Summer Soldiers, but Illya doesn't know how well he heals. He hopes to God Matt's hands will survive this. "Just tell me where it is," he says quickly. "Let me do it. I won't—"

Matt grunts in a mixture of pain and triumph and yanks something out. It's nothing but a tiny cylinder, smaller than a battery. He holds it for Illya, who snatches it and crushes it in his palm.

Matt shakes out his hand, teeth gritted. "It's off," he says, a little breathless and clearly in pain. His index, middle finger and thumb are already blistering, more brutally red than his palms. "I'll be fine," he says, as if he knows what Illya's thinking. "We need to get him to Claire."

Illya is painfully aware of this, but he just nods. He shoves the dead tracker in his pocket; he'll drop it somewhere later. "We can't move him with his arm this hot."

"Yeah," Matt says, sounding distracted. He goes unerringly to Claire's messenger bag and takes out the bottles of water. Bucky's still unconscious. Instead of waking him, Matt opens both bottles and pours them on Bucky's arm, into the open panels. Vapor boils up and the metal hisses like rain

Bucky groans when the water hits his flesh shoulder, then opens his eyes. He blinks owlishly. "Bratik?"

"Yes. Yes, it's me," Illya says. He pushes Bucky's filthy hair out of his eyes. His forehead is so hot. "I'm with a friend. You're lying on your stomach like this because I just shut off your arm so it would stop burning."

"Burning?" Bucky says. He starts shivering again. "No. I'm cold. Can you get me a blanket, Illya?" The words meander between English and Russian, like the note he left for Matt. "My arm is freezing." He tries to push himself up, but he can't do it with his shaking right arm.

"You don't need a blanket," Illya says, helping him sit. "You're too hot al—"

Matt grabs Illya's arm, shushing him. "I can hear a quinjet coming in this direction."

Illya gapes at him. " _What?_ " Removing the tracker must have tipped Hydra's hand. But if they were that close to Bucky already, they could have taken him at any time. Why hold back at all? Unless— "Oh, God," Illya breathes. "They knew we'd find each other eventually. They were waiting for someone to turn off the tracker. They were waiting for _me._ They want us both."

Matt's unseeing eyes go wide. "We have to get out of here before they find us."

"Good thinking, Cowboy," Illya mutters. It's the wrong name again, fuck. "Come on, Vanya. We need to leave here now." Bucky is leaning heavily on him, but as soon as Illya moves him at all it starts Bucky coughing. At least this time he doesn't scream in pain.

But he fumbles for Matt's arm, grips it so tightly that Matt sucks air through his teeth. "Promise you won't…let 'em take me, Mousey," he grits between breaths. "Just…use some metal. Or, fuck. A rock. I don't care. Just…do it…before I'm too sick…to work anymore. I don't wanna die…in the Isolation Ward. Please, Mickle. I don't…wanna die like that. Please. Don't let 'em take me."

It's only one of Bucky's memories, but Matt still makes a horrified noise, hesitates as if his promise would be real. "Bucky—"

"No! Promise me!" Bucky shouts, then wheezes into another thick, ravaging cough. He lets go of Matt to clutch at his chest, but when he can't use his left arm he panics, still coughing.

"It's all right, it's all right, Vanya. It was just broken," Illya says in Russian. "It was broken. I turned it off. You remember I know how to do that, right? It was burning you, so I turned it off."

That seems to calm Bucky enough for him to at least catch his breath. He starts shivering again, sitting curled with his right arm protectively over his chest. The left hangs limp and heavy, still too hot. They should let it cool before they move him, but there's no time.

"Quinjet's landing," Matt says. He has a hand on Bucky's nape, keeping him upright. "They're using a parking lot a couple blocks away. We've got maybe four minutes."

"That's enough time," Illya says. It has to be. He crouches, then pulls Bucky's right arm across his shoulders, trying not to touch Bucky's left side. Illya stands easily with his burden; he's been larger than Bucky since he finished growing, but now it's as if Bucky weighs nothing at all.

Bucky sags against him, his head lolling on Illya's shoulder. He murmurs brokenly in two languages, pleading with Steve to shut the window, he's so cold.

"Yeah," Matt says. "Enough time for you to get him away from here. I'm staying."

"No you are _not,_ " Illya snarls.

Matt ignores him. Instead he stalks to the doorway and grabs his backpack. He pulls out what looks like a folded white cane, then closes the bag and tosses it unerringly to Illya's feet. "Take it. Make them think I'm the only one here."

"No."

"Illya," Matt says. His voice has the strained patience of someone about to do something self-sacrificing and very, very stupid. Illya has heard it many times, including from himself. He knows how this ends. "At least ten Hydra agents will be here in less than three minutes. If they think you and Bucky were here, they will scour the area until they find you. I can't carry Bucky and get away fast enough. You can, but only if you leave now. " He unfolds the cane, twists it and then pulls it into two sticks connected by a long wire. It must hurt his burned hands, but it's impossible to tell.

Matt changes his stance, changes his grip, and suddenly he looks very, very dangerous. "Go! I'll hold them off while you get Bucky help."

"No!" Illya shouts. "Are you stupid? You want to die, Cowboy? They'll kill you!"

"No, they won't," Matt says tightly. "They know about you, so they probably know about me. They won't kill one of their Summer Soldiers, right? Not when there are so few of us left."

"What they will do is worse than killing you," Illya says. 

Matt's smile is grim. "Then you'd better make damn sure you rescue me."

"Matya, Please. Don't do this," Illya begs. He knows it's useless, Begging has never changed anything, but he can't not try. "You don't know—"

"I'll be fine," Matt says. He snatches his backpack off the floor and shoves one of the two straps up Illya's free arm to his shoulder. "Now, take Bucky and _go._ "

Illya clenches his teeth to hold back a scream. His guts churn in despair, sorrow and rage. "I will come back for you, little brother," he says. It's the only thing he can. Then he lifts Bucky into his arms and runs.

He swore no one would hurt his brothers again. He _swore_ it. And now he's leaving his brother behind. And he knows exactly what will happen. They will hurt Matya so badly.

The last glimpse he has of Matt is Daredevil standing like a sentinel, waiting for it to end in a fight. 

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> I already said I should stop promising that things will get better, so I won't promise that things will get better. But, they won't get worse! I don't think!
> 
> [My Tumblr is mostly happy, however!](http://taste-is-sweet.tumblr.com/) Come say hello! :D
> 
> And, if you'd like me to write a fic just for **YOU** (angsty or otherwise!), [you can bid on a fanfic from me for the Fandom Trumps Hate auction!](https://fth2018offerings.tumblr.com/post/169407294874/tasteissweet-fth-contributor-page)


End file.
